


Black as a Shadow

by inheritanceofgeek



Category: The Great Gatsby (1974)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 19:16:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inheritanceofgeek/pseuds/inheritanceofgeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adaline Byrd is a black woman and servant in the Buchanan house hold. Ignored by her employers, she provides a realistic report on their personalities and the events leading up to Myrtle Wilson and Jay Gatsby's deaths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black as a Shadow

**Author's Note:**

> For their ALevel in English Literature and Language Exam board AQA ask that each pupil write a "Text Transformation" based on the texts read in class. 
> 
> In short, I have written fanfic for In Cold Blood, The Great Gatsby, Alan Bennett and Charles Bukowski. 
> 
> This is, obviously, my Great Gatsby piece and, well, I must admit a lot of the characters in this book annoyed me A LOT. So I've used Adaline Byrd to present some of these. I'd been doing American Civil Rights in History so some of the issues in the Novel were things I felt needed expanded upon. Which, I guess, was the whole point of the exercise So, I feel like I should point out that I'm not really a fan of Gatsby ^^;
> 
> But Still. I got an A* for it, and I'd mentioned it to some people in passing as a butt of a joke, and thought, hey, might as well post it. It IS fanfic, after all. Just not necessary written by a fan....

It was the summer of 1922 when it all happened, that scandalous event that set me on the path to where I am now. I was young, beautiful and naturally intelligent. If the circumstances of my birth had been different, then these attributes may have seen me enjoying illegal champagne at the wild parties I heard talked about in excited whispers. Perhaps have met Mr Gatsby at one of his fabulous events and be taken in by his romantic eyes. Yet, I did not. I only observed the man through my job as an efficient black shadow at the house of the infamous Buchanans.

The Buchanans, to me, stood for all that was wrong with the white people of America. There are no words that I could use to truly describe Tom Buchanan that can be used in polite society, therefore I shall simply say that he was the antithesis of the true gentleman he was meant to be. His wife, Daisy, was nothing more than a beautiful fool, happy to be miserable if it meant living as the lap dog of luxury. But above all it was their money that I as the young subjugated black woman hated the most. They would use it as a platform from which they could throw stones in their glass house without fear of being attacked. 

Working under the Buchanans , however, did have two redeeming features. One, a supposed cousin of Daisy, a Mr Nick Caraway who was kind and intelligent. A man attempting to make his own way in the world where his ancestors had not needed to. Here was a man who had fought in the Great War and made it back alive, who was then forced to sip champagne with those who considered themselves better than he was, despite being as evil as Kaiser Wilhelm himself. The second benefit for my position of employment was the wonderful Miss Jordan Baker. Here was a woman who could do and say as she pleased without the need of permission from her parents or approval from her peers. She forged her own path in this world. She was the most free person I had ever seen. She was who my twenty-two-year-old self longed so much to be one day. 

I observed all this from the shadows of their golden rooms on my first day of the job when the Buchanans had what can only be described as the worst dinner party I ever had the misfortune to be a part of. Of course if you had asked those formally present I was never a part of it. That’s the advantage of being a maid in a house like theirs, you can see everything that goes on and nobody is going to notice you because a maid to them is just a less important part of the furniture. Mr Buchanan was being his usual charming self, bragging about how according to “Rise of the Coloured Empires” his Nordic race were superior to all others, white or black, based on how much they had produced in the way of culture. This from a man who had earned his money playing games and who relied on others to cook his food and create his fire for him. I had to suppress my deep amusement at the hypocritical nature of it all for fear of losing my job. I saw how Mr Nick felt more and more awkward as the evening trudged along and the deep unsettled misery of his companions was revealed. Heard speak of the mistress of my ignoble employer and a mention of the man who would unintentionally show everyone in their true unflattering light, Gatsby. 

As far as I was concerned, not much happened between then and my viewing of Mr Gatsby. Mr Nick came and went, each time I was glad to see that he seemed just that little bit more disgusted with their green and gold world. All the time I heard that fabulous Miss Jordan talk excitedly about Gatsby’s parties and I enjoyed closing my eyes and seeing it all for myself dancing with a handsome actor to the latest jazz tunes from that were appearing out of the emerging Harlem Renaissance whilst I stood there polishing their silver. And of course Mr Gatsby and Mrs Buchanan’s sordid affair began. Not that I can say that I was surprised, the way her husband carried on with that woman. This of course only heightened my interest in Mr Gatsby, who could this man be who enchanted her so, making her risk the money she loved for the love of a man? Of course, in the end, she loved the life more. But I digress. 

The heat that year had been rising across the city along with the Mrs Buchanan’s and Mr Gatsby’s romance. I can only assume what happened when she spent those long hours at his mansion on those hot sticky days, but I very much doubt it was playing chess. Whilst I do not under any circumstances condone what happened between them, I must say I was not surprised considering the way her husband carried on with his little whore. And when he found out about it, you can sure bet his hypocritical nature came out like fire from the mouth of a dragon. It was on the hottest day of the year when the sun shimmered in the sky and the stench of sweat filled your nostrils that it all came to blows.

It was the first and last time I was to see Mr Gatsby when he came over that day. I hovered by the door as the Butler answered, pretending to dust the spotless ornaments in the hallway just for a glimpse of this man of mystery who I had heard so many fascinating tales about and yet knew almost nothing of. What first struck me was his handsome face, with eyes that spoke of a kind soul. He reminded me of an illustration of Shakespeare’s Romeo from my High School days. 

I wanted to know more, so I quietly followed them into the salon, keeping my head bowed and pretended to be sorting out the curtains or something, I forget exactly. But I could sense the tension in that room. Mr Buchanan was in a fouler mood than normal, the sort of mood where women find that they have accidently bumped into a cupboard. And when he left I was shocked to see how open Mrs Buchanan’s and Mr Gatsby’s relationship had become with her kissing him full on the mouth in front of Mr Nick and Miss Jordan. Whilst this may seem perfectly normal for you today, back then, it was simply unheard of. And then her daughter, Pammy, walked in, shyly clutching to her nanny’s dress before running out to find comfort in her mother like someone running between two buildings when it’s raining. And all I could do was look at Mr Gatsby. I had expected him to find the little darling absolutely adorable, to automatically love her as he appeared to love Mrs Buchanan simply because she was her daughter. Yet he was not the romantic hero I thought he would be. He looked at her as though she were some sort of cruel beast reminding him that Mrs Buchanan was, in fact, married. That she had been with another man. Loved him even. How could he look upon such an angel and see only the devil? He was clearly not the romantic hero that I had imagined he was. 

After she had escaped the stone-cold gaze of my fallen God, her Gorgon father came back and I made a quick escape, careful to avoid his gaze. They then went out to New York, I do not know why. But that was the day Mr Buchanan’s mistress was killed. That night, Mr Gatsby stayed outside the house until 4 o’clock when Mrs Buchanan finally went to bed. She was so pale, frailer than I had ever seen her. She looked as though she had had a great shock. Well, running someone over can do that to a person. 

The paper reported that Mr Gatsby was killed as revenge for the murder of Mrs Wilson. But this wasn’t true. He was killed as a scapegoat for the death of Mrs Wilson. A romantic might say that he died so Daisy could be saved. A realist would say that he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Me? I say that it was all done to preserve the lives of the elite. To keep the Buchanans safely hidden behind their money. The true villain of the tale was not poor Mr Wilson, but wealthy Mr Buchanan. It was he who in a fit of cowardice and jealousy sent a distraught Mr Wilson to seek revenge on his behalf. Perhaps he did it to save his wife. Yet, I saw no love between them. They were only protecting each other in order to preserve the sacred bond that exists between all those born with a silver spoon.

That was the night I realised something that would change my life forever. These people, they were not nobler, more gallant, and more intelligent. They were not even happier. And yet, they had so much more than me. And why was this? Because they had something that I could not even dream of: money. Money they didn’t even have to earn because some ancient ancestor had earned it for them. And they called this the land of the free? This is why I joined the NAACP, an organisation that would help me to become part of the Harlem Renaissance.


End file.
